


the raven & the magpie

by CrystalDen



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birds, Coming of Age, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Did I mention FOREST FUCKING, F/M, Forest Sex, Forests, Hades/Persephones Vibes, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Virginity, Nature, Ravens, tree bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalDen/pseuds/CrystalDen
Summary: The first time she sees the raven perched on the mailbox, she thinks that it’s a coincidence.Maybe she imagined the whole thing. Maybe she dreamed the glossy, black feathers and the small eyes watching her work in the small cottage.The second time, she knows.It’s no coincidence.He’s coming for her.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 41
Kudos: 64
Collections: 2021 Reylo MonsterLoving Valentines





	the raven & the magpie

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my delightful, generous, funny, and kind beta, [@reylo_addict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reylo_addict)

The voice cracks and splits the chill in the air, drawing her attention away from her desk. 

The orders piled up over the last few weeks. The ache in her arm was still flaring up, making it difficult to press each print over and over throughout the day.

She never imagined that she would be a young woman with aching joints and bones, but each treatment seems to strip more and more from her body.

Coffee won’t numb, a good solid breakfast won’t cure, so she just keeps her mind as sharp as possible, keeps her head down and forges ahead.

She doesn’t mistake the voice for anything other than a lonely bird, hunting for scraps for the journey.

He sits in the same place as before, perched with the cottage in his view.

She smoothes the collar of her shirt down, careful not to touch the ink splattered on the front.

His head tilts to the side in question.

What a notion.

A bird with questions.

His beak pecks the stone and then a lift of his head to meet her face.

* * *

  
  


_ The little girl is wide eyed and wonderful in her ways. _

_ Curious. _

_ Ferocious in her hunger for the world. _

_ Her world. _

_ Her tiny limbs can carry her far and wide among the trees of her home. _

_ She only talks to the strangers of the forest and takes it on her authority to know their names.  _

_ It’s no surprise to anyone when she saves the raven from the net of human garbage that binds him. _

_ Escaping from a trap, his wings are momentarily held together. He is like no creature she has ever seen. His voice is low and sonorous. He doesn’t screech about like other birds. _

_ “Pretty birdie,” she says. _

_ She approaches him with her legs low to the ground, her hands held high in reverence.  _

_ “Who took your freedom,” she asks, a sweet, melodious line. _

_ Her hands sweep over his head and neck to gently caress his body. _

_ She allows him to flap in defense, cooing and shushing him the whole time with a patient touch. _

_ “You’re free to go, pretty,” she says, sitting back into the leaves and dirt.  _

_ He squawks and claps his wings in response before flying away. _

_ She travels far and wide in her little world, for a while never noticing the pair of eyes ever watchful, ever present. _

* * *

  
  


At the first visit from the raven, she follows him to the wood.

The once small village has expanded, claiming more and more of the untouched spread of nature that she loves so dearly. When her feet were smaller and her mind more innocent, she thought that nothing existed outside of the wall of trees. Now, if the world is quiet enough, she’s reminded of the people and things yet to come. 

Not long ago, she raced over root and stream to find the crack of a hammer sounding too close to her home. A house. A shop. Eager and clean faces sharing words and eating food before they resumed their duties.

They were curious and alien. 

She was small and unusual.

She was the stranger, and her appearances along the tree line became legend. Her presence was an omen. 

The apparition of the dark woods. 

If only they knew that she also spoke to animals.

If only they could see her entertaining a raven for tea.

She’s older now.

The village is larger. The population has grown.

The few trips to town are nothing momentous. She’s the artist or the collector, the recluse or she’s nothing to notice at all.

She sells her wares to the shop in town, she sends them far and wide. She smiles, and she never looks back.

The landscape of her world is still a haven.

She sees the shadow of his flight on the ground beneath.

They take this first walk, the first in a long time. 

Her steps are slow.

As her feet take her back to the cottage, she makes a plan to set her pen to paper and search for a home for her earthly things.

* * *

  
  


_ The destruction of her little life was swift. _

_ Her guardians were no more, and with their absence came a vile keeper bent on disturbing her peaceful existence. _

_ His drunken fits leave her escaping on poorly covered feet, hungry for the quiet understanding of her friends. _

_ She speaks to them, having named them long ago. She knows their different colors and spots and knows where they stay hidden. She keeps their secrets. _

_ The call stops her hands as they move over rough stones and cold soil. _

_ Lifting her eyes, she sees him carefully sitting on the nearest branch. _

_ “Oh, pretty pretty,” she says, smiling and sinking her fingers deeper until her nail beds are caked with mud. “You can stay if you want.” _

_ He does. _

_ He bounces and flits across as she gathers the leaves and dry grass. He moves close enough to pick through the clippings, and brings a few more items for the small pile. _

_ Sweet, pretty bird. _

_ He allows her to press the pad of her finger to the tip of his beak. He clips and nips, and she squeals. He lets her do it as many times as she wishes, never tiring of her games. _

_ He flies ahead when she wanders into the darker parts with unfurling, twisting ground. He dots the sky as her mark, keeping her steady and safe. _

_ He even watches her leave. _

_ She curls back in the midst of a gentle leap on the path of stones, throwing her arm back to wave goodbye. _

_ She can hardly contain the excitement as she dozes under heavy covers in the small bed. _

_ Her lids grow heavy in the safety of the downy weight. _

_ She’s flying with him and soaring high above the trees. Even as the darkness gathers, she can feel the warmth of his feathers.  _

_ She’s not scared. _

_ She’s never scared. _

_ She’s going home. _

* * *

The first time she saw the raven perched on the mailbox, she thought it a coincidence.

Maybe she imagined the whole thing. Maybe she dreamed the glossy, black feathers and the small eyes watching her work in the small cottage.

The second time, she knows.

It’s no coincidence.

He’s coming for her.

She reaches out to him, his feathers clean and smooth under her trembling hand. He’s larger than he seemed upon his earlier visits. He’s like a dream.

“Hello, Pretty,” she says, a small rasp in her voice.

His feet shift back and forth, dancing at the recognition. 

She’s smiling, her mouth wide.

She sifts through the few pieces of mail and walks back to the path leading to the cottage door.

Waiting for him to follow, she turns.

His wings lifted, his beak low.

Her smile fading, she addresses him again, “When will you come to me next?”

He never answers her like this.

She slowly turns, the balls of her feet landing on each individual stepping stone as she walks to the front door.

She’s sure she hears him singing low as she tosses under the covers of her bed that evening.

No mistake.

He’s coming.

* * *

  
  


_ She spends the morning with her feet bare, wading up to her knees in the stream near her favorite mossy tree.  _

_ The wait is never long to hear the rustling of feathers over her shoulder. If she didn’t turn straight away, he would complain in song until she turned to him and smiled. His feet normally dance at the sight of her small fingers reaching for him as she scrapes her nails over his soft body. His last visit, she found him to be larger, his wingspan spreading to cast a larger shadow in flight. _

_ She knows that he guards her, although from what, she is unsure. She has friends here among the beasts and beauty. _

_ She walks beneath the little makeshift hut she has fashioned, making more improvements to it. More changes to the design. She possesses very few tools that she can manage to carry on her walk, but the little hatchet is better than nothing. She guides it through the dirt before marking out a stretch that can be removed with her hands. _

_ Her mind is diligent in the task, but all the while she wonders if she will ever see him. As the sun begins to rise higher, her head picks up more than once to the sound of movement behind her, only to find another creature or the wind. _

_ With her self-appointed chore complete, she looks down at filthy knees, feet, and hands and makes her way to cool water.  _

_ Under the flow, she hears the flap of wings. She is unable to contain the smile that spreads or the breath of relief that escapes, but when she turns, the pretty bird is nowhere to be found. _

_ She breathes, dusting away the disappointment along with bits of ground from her clothes. _

_ The feeling so deep and ancient snakes close, and she looks around, feeling a presence all while her feet stay planted. It sits in a low buzz at the base of her skull, twisting her shoulders to look again until she stops with her lips opening in a small gasp. _

_ She doesn’t trust her eyes seeing the boy. _

_ Fair and tall with dark hair and dark eyes. _

_ He stands on the edge of the water where the land slopes higher. _

_ She often pretends that the same perch is a great cliff, a place to survey her dominion. _

_ He towers, standing there to survey her now. _

_ Graceful. _

_ Somber. _

_ His face, otherworldly. _

_ Large and strong, something imagined in the guise of a human with a fair coat of skin, luminous and smooth. _

_ The lines of his face are sharp, like the clean contours from a freshly shaven pencil. And maybe the tip had broken, splattering flecks across his face in the form of little marks.  _

_ His ears. _

_ His ears are a wonder. _

_ Peeking from behind a thick mess of black waves are the largest ears she has ever seen. _

_ He is otherworldly for sure. _

_ Otherworldly and beautiful. _

_ He cocks his head, and the gesture nearly releases her feet from their place to fall into the shallow pool of water. _

_ Her toes dig deep into the mud, gripping rock and moss, to steady herself. _

_ “Pretty?” _

_ She whispers it. _

_ His eyes begin to narrow and the darkest orbs begin to pull her underneath. _

_ “Pretty birdie,” she asks, a little louder. More sure. _

_ A little flicker, his head cocking to the other side, and she can feel the waves of time fluttering around her and almost picture the black wings cresting and wrapping around his form. _

_ Her pretty bird, now a man. Or boy. _

_ “What are you doing,” he asks. His long arm stretches to point, his eyes fixed. _

_ It’s unnatural, the way his words and face disagree. He is not animated in the way others are when they speak. Each movement is careful as if unaware of how to make the two ideas meet.  _

_ The fear that still lingers from his presence subsides at the realization that this creature is unfamiliar with the ways of his body. The tips of his fingers tick, his lips practice the words, and his head begins to bob and roll. _

_ She feels her feet sink further before she finally pushes herself away from the tiny bank and crawls forward to his side to face him. _

_ He retreats, not in fear, but with his eyes wide and alight with interest in having her so close. _

_ She pivots the balls of her feet, drying them on the moss and grass lining the water. _

_ “Pretty,” she says, once again. Recognition. A small truth between friends. _

_ Broad shoulders tense under the grasp of her small fingers around his wrist. Turning his palm to face the sky, she runs a hand over it, finding little scars, pink and white with time. _

_ “Who hurt you, Pretty,” she asks, her voice rich and sweet with concern. _

_ His breathing is uneven, his chest stuttering as her fingers run over his back and forth, forming a lattice where they cross. The touch is almost too much to bear for him, soft and ticklish. It sparks something new within her being. _

_ She pulls away just as the feeling begins to subside, turning to gather her things. _

_ She never asks him to follow her, but her feet make quiet leaps over stones and branches as she takes her walk. _

_ He keeps a safe distance, following behind her and swooping on foot.  _

_ Their quiet companionship becomes a constant in her life.  _

_ The boy, the pretty bird. _

_ Ever watchful. _

_ At chase, in play, or on guard. _

_ She feels him there. _

_ Ever present. _

_ His long arms reach for her and expand around her to offer her a place to lean when she falls.  _

* * *

  
  
  
_ He looks when she’s not watching. _

_ Exhausted. _

_ Sweaty brows and dirty faces, arms and legs splayed out on the ground to make up stories about the sky. _

_ Letting cooler temperatures steal her breath as she pants and feels the burning effort in her legs.  _

_ Sometimes the fatigue is enough to drown her attention, but sometimes she feels his eyes follow the steady motion of her ribs expanding and contracting. _

_ The way she lingers and removes her hands from her chest to drop them to her side. _

_ A brush of fingers in tall grass. _

_ “Do you have friends like me?” _

_ She turns away from the patch of cloud kingdom above and looks into his face. _

_ “No,” she says, with a slight shake of her ahead, “No one in my whole life is like you.” _

* * *

  
  
_ She’s never called him anything beyond Pretty or Birdie. As long as he has been a fixture in her life, she’s never considered the preposterous nature of this arrangement.  _

_ What a strange pair they make.  _

_ Sitting next to him near the stream, her hands toy with a few found stones, lining them up to circle the hand that catches the weight of his body. His body stretched long seems to point to her as she situates herself at his side. _

_ “What’s your real name,” she says, her voice soft and uncertain. _

_ “I have no name.” _

_ Her voice rings with laughter, “That’s silly. Everyone has a name.” _

_ “I don’t need one. I always hear you when you call or need,” he says. The dark maple of his eyes shines under a bright sun. Both being and girl survey each other, waiting for another word or move from their counterpart. _

_ Still filled with questions, she swallows them whole, “Pretty it is then.”  _

_ A gentle breath of laughter escapes, and he looks back at her, moving his frame an infinitesimal amount towards her.  _

_ “What do you call me,” she asks. _

_ “Little one,” he says, no hesitation,  _

_ “Mine.” _

_ Her lips part, and the depth of her belly is molten warm. _

* * *

  
  


_ “Your face has changed,” she says, her hands placed nervously on her pleated skirt.  _

_ She smoothes the wool fabric over her knees before reaching down to grab a few fallen leaves, gently scattering them around. _

_ He is her pretty, black bird. _

_ He is also the boy that the bird brought. _

_ Her friend. _

_ Her companion. _

_ Her pet. _

_ She dotes on him whether boy or bird, stroking his feathers, braiding his hair, or washing feet and hands when he makes a particularly difficult transformation. _

_ He comes to her as often as he can, never saying where he goes or what he does. She knows better than to ask from the pained expressions he wears after a long absence. Sometimes it’s difficult for him to appear as the boy. He squawks, shuffles, and sings low as she climbs trees and plays a game without him. _

_ Their games are often the same.  _

_ A race to the stream, collecting small trinkets of stone, a few things for her to polish later. Little sparkling crystals that shine like the sun.  _

_ Jumping over the largest gaps in the stream, he is often the champion, his tall limbs hardly working to reach. The girl is never far behind. _

_ Today as he took on his human form slowly, her eyes widened. His wings stretched wide, and her mouth fell in a soft gasp as a long black cloak hit the forest floor. His form stretched tall until he towered. His hands reached out, large fingers forming from the sleek, inky feathers. His eyes opened into dark, maple circles. His hair fell into a silky frame around his long face. _

_ Not a man. Not fully. _

_ Her heart clenched at his visage. _

_ Not a boy. _

_ “You’ve changed, too.” _

_ She touches her hair pulled tight in three small buns. _

_ His eyes fall lower, and she follows his gaze to the small, swell of breasts, the curve of her thighs underneath her skirt. _

_ Low at the gentle apex of her womanhood, she’s overwhelmed by a strange sensation. The muscles in her legs clench unexpectedly, and she turns her attention to the ground, digging an earthworm free. _

_ “You like the earth, don’t you,” he asks, his eyes shining in admiration. _

_ It distracts her momentarily. She turns her face away from his gaze, digging and pushing her hand into the black soil until her nail beds, filled with dirt, begin to ache. _

_ She does love the earth. It transforms. It gives life. It’s warm when it needs to be and cool when it’s for the best. _

_ She smiles, her fingers tracing and mapping, “If I could, I would sleep in it.” _

_ Drawing the shape of her home and the shape of her life, she makes a wish. She imagines things that she can’t comprehend. _

_ She feels the weight of his stare, and she lifts her eyes from her sketch in the ground. The black of his pupils have reached every corner of his eye. His focus is great, and she recognizes the look of hunger and wonder flashing across his face. _

_ Prey. _

* * *

  
  
_ “Little one, what’s wrong,” he asks, gliding in as she paces between the trees. _

_ She holds the small cluster of rocks in her hands, throwing them with considerable force one by one. _

_ She doesn't stir at his appearance. _

_ “The old keeper says I have to go away,” she says, throwing another stone with a grunt, “to another school, far away.” _

_ She claws at a handful of wildflowers, swallowing the tears fighting to make their way down her face, her breath sputtering at her poor fortune. Lost without her parents, now without her home, and maybe her dark guardian. _

_ “Take me away from here,” she says. _

_ Even without the sound of his heavy steps, she can feel his presence near. _

_ “One day, little one. I promise,” he says. _

_ She looks into his face, her breath caught in her throat.  _

_ His face is nearly skeletal with hollow cheeks and purpling circles under his eyes. _

_ “Your face has changed,” she says, a whisper. _

_ She stands before him, feeling the pace of her heartbeat quickening and mixing with something she doesn’t recognize in his presence. _

_ A thread of fear. _

_ It’s the first time that she’s seen him with the sun shining so brightly above them. His cloak, always so seamless in its movement, is revealed. A patchwork of onyx and leather. The stitchwork is crude. He is nearly covered from head to foot in the thick, cumbersome fabrics.  _

_ “What happened to you, Pretty,” she says. _

_ His eyes shut and open before stepping forward. His movements are labored. _

_ “Change back,” she says. She feels the panic, but she can’t stifle it. “Change back, Pretty.” _

_ He holds up gloved fingers to her to calm. His hands are large and for the first time, it occurs to her how easily he could bend her, break her. _

_ “Little one,” he says, reaching. _

_ She moves to answer him before curling her fingers to close her hand. The leather soles of her shoes squeak on the wet grass as she steps back from his touch. _

* * *

  
  


_ It’s not real. _

_ It never seems real as they make a sweet picture of a maiden and battered prince, nestled in the arms of nature. _

_ Her hands rake their way through the long, dark locks. _

_ It’s the most peaceful that he’s ever looked, the lines that have come to frame his face softening and disappearing into a melting form. _

_ Eyes closed and hands folded over his intestinal house, he’s stretched long with his head resting in her lap. Today he accepts her pets and the little songs she tries to sing. He’s basking in her attention as she braids and releases his hair over and over again.  _

_ The girl hangs in the relief of easy moments, a cool breeze, and the comfortable quiet existing. _

_ The friendly and easy manner they’ve always shared is strained as of late. He hesitates often before he holds her hands. He pulls away when her face comes too close to his own.  _

_ It calls to her, this new and unchecked hunger. Her education gave her more than an understanding of history, languages, and the world. It’s whispered in the halls and in the quiet circles of eager minds. The desire and pull of the bodies. The feelings that flutter and beg. She’s not without knowledge, and she wants more. _

_ The alluring string of thoughts catches her unaware. She’s mesmerized as her hand drifts below his rib cage and feels his shoulders stiffen as he pulls away. Squirming beneath him, her thighs draw close together, attempting to dampen the feeling that exists every time she gets close.  _

_ One palm resting on his heart, she adds a small weight to settle him, returning her fingers to her work. She swallows the lump in her throat, furrowing her brow and combing through the silky strands. _

_ She braves it, pressing the question on her tongue and licking her lips before she speaks, “Why don’t you touch me?” _

_ Her hands still as she says it, holding her breath. He opens his eyes, casting them to the heavens. Her heart is beating rapidly, and she’s begging to feel that same frantic pounding answered under her hand. If only the question left him vulnerable for her study. How easy it would be, never needing a word, just feeling the pulse of his pining beneath her palm. _

_ The disappointment she feels is monumental as his eyes slowly blink and withdraw further from her into the clouds above. There’s barely a glimmer, and she wonders if he is somewhere else while she waits for him to speak. _

_ “Do you want me to touch you,” he asks. _

_ His fingers inch up from his midsection, his thumb grazing his sternum, and her breath is caught, waiting for him to reach for her hand. _

_ “Yes,” she says, exercising a silent chant on her lips to urge his hands on. _

_ She watches the motion, her comb of fingers clenching and beginning to pull his hair at the root while the others stretch toward the steadily rising palm. _

_ “One day, little one,” he says, his hand drifting back to its original resting place. _

_ “One day,” she asks. _

_ “One day, little one.” _

_ The sound of it from his lips confuses her body and mind. _

_ A small gust of wind blows, and she feels the lightest touch to her collarbone. The feeling nearly causes her to leap from her soft seat in the grass. She looks down at the source. _

_ He’s real. _

_ He has to be real. _

_ The feeling is real. _

_ It’s true and warm and certain. _

_ It’s there in the night when she lifts her eyes to the ceiling, staring at a faded crack, the cottage settling and resting over decades of existence. _

_ It’s there when she shifts her legs in the small bed. _

_ When she wonders how long before she sees him again. _

_ How long before she hears him call. _

_ And when her fingers leave the warmth of her center, he’s there. _

_ A whisper on her lips, and a cry in the night. _

_ A memory of a touch just above her heart. _

* * *

  
  
  
_ When the old keeper died, she was asleep in a bed of tall, dead grass. Nothing stirred, nothing quaked. _

_ Turning on her side, she stroked the soft skin of the inside of her arms, imagining the same attention from the raven, until she fell under a spell. _

_ Found in his favorite chair, the old man was taken away, never to hold her captive again. _

_ The cottage, the property, the woodland heaven. _

_ Now under the legal care of the maiden fair. _

_ Running to capture his attention, she called him for the first time, begging and pleading for him to appear. _

_ “I’m free,” she says. _

_ His steps slow. _

_ “I’m free!” _

_ No matter that his expression is pained, no matter that he seems weakened at his side. _

_ “He’s dead, take me with you. I’m free!” _

_ Throwing herself in his arms, he catches her and lets her down gently. He seems the same wounded and captured bird on their first meeting, and she looks into his eyes, his face gray. _

_ His fingers slide to grace her cheekbones, and he holds her close, blocking her sight and burying her in deep, dark fabrics. His cloak is around her, and she feels herself floating in a pool of relief. _

_ “One day,” he whispers. _

_ She’s ascending. _

_ No.  _

_ Sinking, descending. _

_ A dream, dark and forbidding. _

_ Her body limp and fading. _

_ Slipping. _

_ “One day, you’ll meet me at dusk. The wind will carry your feet and catch the ends of your dress of white. Your steps will be slow, but you will grow strong with every moment. I’ll perch my feet, my presence a message. I’ll take you, every part, bond myself. You’ll be mine forever.” _

_ “Forever,” she whispers. _

_ “I promise,” he says. _

_ His cloak is removed and the day returning to her, he flies away. _

_ “I promise,” she whispers. _

* * *

  
  
  


_ She stands to her full height with her arms crossed, the wind beginning to encase and pull the fabric of her dress. She feels a terrible beast, looming over him for once as she stands at the stretch of hill. _

_ “You promised,” she says, a sharp whisper sent and sealed. _

_ The face is one she loves and loathes in this moment. Loves the eyes, the great and regal sight. Loves the boy, the bird, the man.  _

_ Loathes the secrets webbed in scars. Loathes the resignation and disappointment he ultimately brings to rest at her feet. _

_ His silence is her answer. _

_ She exhales, a shaky breath, another one wasted for him.  _

_ “Where have you been?” _

_ His arms come around her shoulders, pulling her close and resting his chin on her crown of flowers. The last rosettes of the season. Deep purples and bloody reds. _

_ “You thought to force my hand? To urge me to sweep you away,” he says, the amusement in his voice ruffling her feathers. _

_ Her senses are surrounded with the feel and sound of each inhale.  _

_ “Don’t leave me again,” she says. _

_ “I’m never gone. I’m always with you,” he says.  _

_ Such sweet words. She would plead in the night, her heart tight and her fingers cramping and relaxing in the great relief of those words.  _

_ Her hands slide up his broad chest to part herself from him, and she pushes him away, kicking her feet and stepping back to release the long skirts and clear the path in front of her. _

_ “Not always, not always,” she says, backing away and turning to shut him out. _

_ She’s exhausted from wanting. _

_ The length of her dress carves a path in the dirt as she leaves him standing with his arms outstretched. She can no longer muster the strength to watch him depart. She doesn’t want to see his face, or hear his promises any longer. _

_ He is before her, flying to her side, his fingers clawing at her elbow.  _

_ “Let go of me,” she says, pushing and running. She knows this wood well. Her bare feet soar and flit above each slope and groove. Her heart is beating fast, not from the work, but from leaving so blatantly.  _

_ She never departs first. She never leaves with anything but honeyed goodbyes on her lips as he flies far away. _

_ But, she’s overwhelmed with the loneliness of her life and the lingering feeling that she’s not meant for this world. He was supposed to complete, not leave her to decay in the mire. _

_ The belonging, the secrets he carries of his life beyond here. She’s always known in her soul that they were meant to share it together. _

_ She hears the wide flap of wings overhead and a strong gust brings her tumbling forward in the path beneath a canopy of nestled oak trees. _

_ Her knees ache and the palm of her right hand glows bright red with a fresh cut from her fall. She rolls to her back, wiping flecks of dirt and mud from her cheeks. _

_ He lands a few feet away and an unearthly, low scream echoes as he takes his human form once more. _

_ It’s painful for him now. _

_ The more scars he carries, the more difficult it becomes for him to be both. _

_ The soft, diaphanous fabric spreading around her, she waits. She cries in the simple relief of being caught. _

_ His warm fingers grip her ankle, and before she can brace herself, he’s pulling her to him. Her legs and arms scrape against the coarse elements of the ground as he drags her for what feels like miles. _

_ It’s only a few feet in the center of the grove. _

_ He’s stretched towards her, clawing his way until he hovers over her small figure. _

_ His eyes are wounded, his mouth a thin line of buried fury. _

_ It all softens as he views her vulnerable face, tears, and dress askew. _

_ “Maybe one day I will be the one to fly away,” she says. _

_ He grips her wrists, pulling them above her head, the sharp points of his hips restraining her as he rocks toward her to hold her still. _

_ “Let go of me,” she says, her words heavier than the body pressing her into the ground. _

_ Take me, or let me go. _

_ He draws a line from temple to cheek with the beak of his nose, his breath thrilling her and subduing.  _

_ Her fists clench under grasp, looking into his face, forcing every ounce of command she’s able to possess, “Don’t leave me again.” _

_ The words release another flow of tears. He tilts his chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. _

_ “I’m never gone,” he says, planting a soft kiss to each tear, “I’m always with you.” _

_ Her breath hitches.  _

_ His vow now secured deep under her ribs, stuck to the sinewy muscle and encasing her vital organs. _

_ Her veins are fire.  _

_ The weight is almost unbearable and stifling as she sinks further, her skin begging to meld with the earth. She feels the roots, the buds, and decay ask permission, and she surrenders as a swirl of wind whips around them.  _

_ It’s the creak of vines crawling in the mud to take hold that call her attention from his face. She sees their approach before they wrap and pull around her ankles and wrists until her limbs are tethered and spread beneath him.  _

_ A light brush of feathers or fingers drifts from the tip of her nose and ghosts their way down her body until her skin burns fresh with little shivers to her spine.  _

_ She doesn’t know what to do. The maiden is only able to feel the sweet anticipation of something yet to be fulfilled. His fingers run their way down her body again, and she floats, ascends to his touch. He watches, his eyes and the curious turn of his chin waiting for her to see. _

_ How she answers him. How he calls. _

_ She is stretching and meeting his hips. _

_ How he answers her. _

_ Billowing skirts are thrust upwards. She is warm between her legs, arching at the rush of cold air, displayed and spread like an offering. _

_ His chest hums at the sight, and he’s singing. _

_ A tune that she knows by heart. _

_ She has no desire to leave, but her curiosity, her eager mind wanders to her natural restraints, and she tests them, unable to escape. _

_ The thought warms her, readies her for plunder. _

_ His lips brush her temple, making his way down to catch her ears and the hollow of her throat. She reaches for his face, and whines at the loss of control. _

_ “No, little one,” he whispers. _

_ She balks at the endearment, but he kisses her, stealing her words and consuming her wishes to reach. Her shoulders relax, and the hands of the earth pull her further. _

_ Deep within a secret place, where no one has dared to go, he bends like the trees framing him to enter her, and take possession of her soul. _

_ Her body opens around him like the softly, parted pages of a book. _

_ Her eyes are wide, looking up at him as if watching him transform for the first time. _

_ “Pretty,” she gasps as his length slides deeper inside. _

_ She barely manages a wince and sharp twist of her face before he’s cooing and calming, leaning forward to let the dark tendrils of hair brush her face. Her small cries echo under the cave of his body and land on the far reaches of the sky and forest.  _

_ This dark creature rises and slides, rolling his hips to press further inside.  _

_ She grips the roots with her hands for leverage as the slow assault makes her writhe.  _

_ He’s under her skin.  _

_ The pages of long forgotten pain and anguish, caught on a wind and swept down an endless hallway. Doors nearly pulled from hinges and swinging wide open. _

_ All revealed and coming to life around her. _

_ She’s not imagining it.  _

_ The trees really do bend, the earth really does let her fall deeper. When she closes her eyes, she sees the layers of earth, rock, dust, even small insects curl and tickle her ear.  _

_ Breathing with her and embracing her. _

_ It all stutters and builds with excitement, calling her to a place she’s never been, but one she recognizes as home. _

_ Her mouth falls open as he continues to sheathe himself inside, the first stinging moments now building into a pleasure that she cannot name. _

_ The lines of his face are an anchor as she follows their path to his eyes. The warm, honey and amber has been flooded by the deep onyx of his truest form. Even with the absence of the heart of his pupils, she still catches the flicker of his attention. _

_ There is no telling who is more consumed with whom. Their movements roll and flow now like passing through water. _

_ There are moments where she feels the gnawing desire to squirm or jerk or even run, but every movement now follows through in a dance of his rising and her writhing.  _

_ The clouds move in above them, and his hand passes over her body, so large and supportive on the trail to further her pleasure. _

_ He knows her secrets, surely. He knows the place that only she has touched in the quiet of her bed, longing for the darkness.  _

_ The raven, her lord, bends his head. His beak bending as he takes a thumb and brushes it past her lower lip then pressing inside. She’s taking it as he pushes and circles it over her tongue. She’s stunned, but her instinct takes over and she begins to suck. _

_ The breath from his nose and mouth escaping.  _

_ A tiny suckle to his thumb, her hips canting. _

_ The grunts and groans at his deeper thrusts.  _

_ A round of sounds and motions leave them in a trance. She’s sinking deeper and deeper into those eyes, watching herself fall and float down in a mess of gossamer fabric. _

_ “Not yet, little one,” he says, his voice strained, “One day.” _

_ She pulls on her restraints, but the roots dig and bruise, stretching her further open to him. _

_ “One day,” he says, his voice soft and his breath falling over her ear. _

_ He removes his thumb, wet with her saliva, and moves it low. _

_ “Please,” she says, asking. _

_ For anything.  _

_ For everything. _

_ “My little one, so eager to leave. So desperate for damnation. Desperate to be mine.” _

_ “You’re mine, too,” she says, tears flooding her eyes, “I’m yours, and you’re mine.” _

_ He takes control of her mouth with his lips and tongue, swallowing and sucking her bottom lip. The touch, the pleasure, the surrounding life all bleeds together. _

_ “You promised,” she says, with a cry. _

_ “Damnation,” he whispers, the color draining from his voice, “As you wish.” _

_ She sees his face, sunken in defeat and a flash of something unearthly under his skin. _

_ The vines begin to die, the life begins to disappear. _

_ Her breathing slows, and they sink into the ground, new roots and mud slipping their way around their bodies as the sky begins to move away. It bubbles ominously, this grave of night. _

_ Her hands and feet are free, and she reaches out for her forest fetters to pull them out of this quicksand. _

_ He’s still thrusting and pushing little whimpers from her mouth as his eyes close. Lips moving and mumbling, he’s letting it happen. _

_ He’s making it happen. _

_ Whispering ancient runes over them both. _

_ She’s watching the sky as the walls grow higher and they sink deeper. _

_ She’s not scared. _

_ She won’t miss the moments of isolation or the cruelty of that world, but for a moment, she’s wondering about what happens to them next. The friends in the forest, the little town so far away. The people that stare. _

_ The home that she’s built, the stones, the shutters. The colors of daisies in spring.  _

_ “The green moss,” she whispers. _

_ Her fingers curl and release with the far away sky as the background. _

_ “One day,” he says, and with those words, the last moments dissipate. She’s no longer slipping under. Life returns and the ground lets them rest into it like a soft hammock. _

_ His mouth captures hers and he wraps her free legs around his waist, bringing her closer to his rolling hips. The consistent pleasure begins to numb, until his thumb brushes the soft peaks of her breasts. She feels them tighten with the wet interference of his mouth.  _

_ He sucks and nips, pulling until her breast releases in a soft, wet sound. Suddenly, the pleasure between her thighs rolls over the plateau and builds again. The wet sounds. It reminds her of the pleasurable squish of her toes in mud and the feel of freedom. Now a new sound, embarrassing and arousing. _

_ He lifts himself to his knees, a sort of reverence in his position. His thrusts become deep, rough, and fast. _

_ The fall.  _

_ She can already see it in the distance as her breathing becomes too quick. Her nails scratch and dig into any skin she can reach, begging him to release her before she climbs too high.  _

_ “Pretty, pretty,” she begs, her voice cracking, “Pretty, please. Pretty, please.” _

_ She hears the call. A long squawk, echoing and severing the air. It’s a clean sound, bright. _

_ It’s the girl, a young maiden. _

_ The pleasure consuming and breaking, she weeps. _

_ “Please,” she yells, wailing and clawing. One hand feels the dirt beneath her and the familiar pressure of mud underneath nails. _

_ He groans and falls over her body, the light in the forest disappearing under his cloak.  _

_ For a moment, she is sheltered under his wings, small and fierce as she was the day she met him. _

_ “You promised.” _

_ “Forever.” _

* * *

  
  
She’s packing up the orders from the most recent batch, eager to make the post by noon.

She lovingly touches each package, pleased with the effort and time that went into each piece.

It was a hobby, but it turned into so much more. It was a way, a means of survival. A reward for the years of misfortune. A way to stay close to the home that she held dear.

Ever since his second visit, she finds herself distracted at different intervals of the day, staring out the window.

The air is cooler today, the trees a mixture of greens, yellows, and orange.

It seems too soon.

It’s the only noticeable difference in the appearance of the outside, but somehow all things seem to be filled with a new energy.

The rustle of creatures scurrying to and fro, the different bird songs cut through the air.

And yet, no sign of the lord raven.

When she returns from dropping the last of the orders, she walks from room to room, tidying as she goes. 

She folds the quilt, tattered and poorly sewn, hugging it before she drapes it over the back of the loveseat.

She places one of the vinyl records in the appropriate sleeve, tempted to play it one more time, but continuing on her task.

The wind blows and the leaves shimmy from their branches. The light hits them giving the surrounding forest a glittering appearance.

She won’t leave anyone behind, but she has no desire to leave any loose ends when she departs.

The wait is long, but it always has been.

She becomes anxious as the days and weeks pass. She occupies herself, making notes, lingering on the details of each quest.

Near the top of the list is the little cafe in the center of downtown, a favorite spot.

She orders the same thing whether she dines in or out, a patty melt and a chocolate milkshake with fries.

The chalkboard at the window announces the chicken and rice soup special that seems to have been there for years. She orders her usual, adding an order of the soup that she’s never attempted to try.

She’ll save it for later, maybe a nice lunch tomorrow.

The little stool at the counter squeaks to her swinging legs as she waits for her order. She can reach the black and white tile below, but there’s a small joy in letting her feet swish back and forth like she did when she was small. The walls have been painted over the years, the same sweet pastels. The owner with her large spectacles has seen the girl come in and out most of her life, but simply smiles and passes her the brown paper bag when all of her items are ready to go.

It’s a quick walk to the old, red pickup, spots of rust long gone after hours of work.

She turns to view the small cafe, the glowing sign in the window, and the lunch countertop shining from the street. She makes a snapshot of it in her mind, climbing up into the cab and driving home.

* * *

  
  


She hasn’t touched it since the last time the fabric hugged her body.

Pulling the dress past the scrapes and bruises over her head.

Cleaned and stored away in the depths of the little closet, she pushed it away.

Much like she shoved away other pieces of him, the ones that wouldn’t let her forget, wouldn’t let her move on.

The ones tucked away, offering her alternate explanations for his existence.

The skirt unfolds and drops, its length filling the patch of floor around her feet. It swishes and sways, and she hears the snap of twigs, cracking and echoing in the distance.

It still fits, even if a little snug around the ribs. She could always let it out just a touch.

She’s changed.

Not the same girl, willfully forcing her way at the feet of death.

Begging to become a shadow of this earth.

Her hair has lost the same shine, her eyes seem dull.

Whispers.

At all hours of the day.

Maybe stress.

Or the medicine.

Sometimes it rings clear, blurring her vision and guiding her hands to grasp the sides of her head. She shakes, she presses her fingers around her skull to make it end.

The physician at the city hospital will just place a reassuring hand on her shoulder and relay the same message.

As the throb of her brain against her skull tears down her resolve, she feels abandoned once again, but her fears begin to assuage, the words in her mind creeping their way from out of her throat.

“He’s coming.”

* * *

She wakes one morning and the surrounding elements are foreign, her attachment to them nearly a memory.

The tea and biscuits are left cold and untouched on their tray.

It’s a stranger’s dream of home.

She’s watching the day pass with little interest, no final walks. No last goodbyes to stone walls.

As the sun begins to relax for the evening, she moves with quiet anticipation about the room.

There’s no cause for lingering, the rustle of fabric percussive at her feet. 

Swooping in low to the little gate of the cottage, his wings stretch. A dark sky is growing. He wears the same wide cloak. The scars are many as he comes to collect her, and she lets him chase her one more time.

She’s weak and fragile, but she pushes ahead, the thrill, the tiny fluttering of a bird-like heart moving her forward. Her bones collect and strengthen as the chase grows stronger, faster, his flight beginning to pick up to her own. The nearly lifeless threads of chestnut are shining and silky again. 

The little magpie moves through the wind, soaring and gliding over and under. She is strong and unmatched. Only by her lover and friend.

She feels him, steady and constant. She need never wonder where he goes again. She chirps and knows his response, a call to shelter herself under his wings.

A feather grip brushes her wrist, and he captures her once again.

Forever.

He promised.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Other works:[CrystalDen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalDen/works)
> 
> Twitter:[@the_crystalden](https://twitter.com/the_crystalden)


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